


I'm Not Afraid of the Dark

by StarDrifter759



Series: Darkside [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Inner Dialogue, Minor Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-02-28 05:44:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13264938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarDrifter759/pseuds/StarDrifter759
Summary: Karen Page has a lot to think think about sitting on the floor of a hotel's service elevator with Frank Castle's blood on her clothes.





	I'm Not Afraid of the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> At this juncture I'm assuming that you've seen DDs2 and the Punisher. If you haven't then just fyi there will be spoilers for you. For more info on this series check out my series summary and notes.

_Some days I can’t get out of my head_

_That’s just the dark side of me_

_Some nights, It’s hard for me to fall asleep_

_That’s just the dark side of me_

_If you ever ever call my name, name_

_You will find out that we’re both the same_

_When the lights go out, I need to know_

_Are you afraid of the dark?_

_I’m not afraid of the dark_

 

He had told her once that the only people who could really hurt her were the ones who were close enough to matter. She’d thought about Matt, and she’d thought about her family, and Ben. And she listened as Frank talked about Maria and tried desperately to avoid comparing what he was saying about loving Maria with what she felt about Matt. 

… Thought she felt about Matt. 

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Did she love him? Yes, she thought she did. But was it that kind of love? The kind of love that Frank talked about? The kind that tears your heart out and stomps on it? … She wasn’t so sure. She didn’t want to say that, didn’t want to even think it. Not with the man sitting across from her with the x-ray eyes. Didn’t want to examine it. Not when she didn’t know what she thought, what she felt, or what it meant.

Yes, she loved Matt. She had been alone and friendless when he and Foggy walked into her life. She had felt safe and cherished for the first time in so long. So yes, she did love him. But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the same kind of love that Frank was talking about with Maria. She knew that. But she didn’t examine it. She couldn’t. 

Later that night, standing on a pier, looking at a burning boat, she’d comprehend just what he had been talking about as a vice closed around her rapidly beating heart. She understood then, what he meant. But still… couldn’t allow herself to really think about it. Not really. After all, it’s madness isn’t it? To realize you’re in love with a dead man. They say you don’t know what you have until it’s gone, but… how does that make sense? To love a man who was so lost in his own grief and rage that he was desperate to die. That he couldn’t see a life, couldn’t see an after, couldn’t see _her_. How could she love him after all that he’d done? How could she not realize what she was feeling? 

 _Was_ that what she feeling? The pain in her chest had indicated that it absolutely was. Still… she couldn’t examine it. She shut the closet door on those thoughts and chose to think of him in other terms. 

Getting in the car with Schoonover and hearing the music play she had been so relieved. Was weak with it. Because it meant he was alive, alive and looking out for her. Nothing could compare to that elation. Not even the gun pointed at her with intent. But then the forest, and everything that happened in it… she told herself to believe her own words. To believe that he was dead to her, that there was no other way. After all he had said it, he was already dead, and in his mind he was. He was dead to himself - buried with the brutalized remains of his family – and had nothing left to give. 

She tried to believe it. 

She tried.

But as the months went by, more deaths reported on the news – Dogs of Hell here, Kitchen Irish there, with Cartel scattered between – and then nothing. Nothing. Six months of nothing. And every night she had felt the weight. She didn’t really think of him during the day, when she was busy, when she was working, when she was spending time with friends. But at night, living by herself she would. She felt hollow where on that pier she’d felt nothing but pain. How was that possible? How could he have torn her heart out so efficiently that she felt nothing but pain? How was it she would lay there wishing to feel anything? Anything in that hollow space, because if she felt pain at least that meant he was alive. And then she thought that she’d started to understand what he had meant in that diner about cutting off his own arm for Maria to hurt him just one more time. Because she was starting to ask herself just what she would do, for Frank to hurt her just one more time. She didn’t know. She honestly wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Investigative Journalist or not some thoughts are better left unexamined, especially when they’re your own. 

Months of this, months of this silent internal struggle, and then she sees him. Wrapped in a blanket on the sidewalk, pretending to be a hobo, ridiculous beard and all. And she felt it all again. Felt fear, anger, joy, and heartache, the rush of everything. Felt all of her memories like a flipbook soaring through her brain one after the other. And she didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know if she wanted to hit him, hug him, scream at him; tell him to leave her alone or beg him to never leave her again. She didn’t know. 

So instead she asked the only pertinent question she could, “What the hell are you doing here?” because he had a reason. Frank Castle always had a reason, and if he had chosen to stay out of her life this long then there was a reason he was back and no matter what he claimed it wasn’t just to say hi. And to be honest, despite the whirlwind of emotions she also felt oddly detached from them; strange how one can feel so much and so little at the same time. Like the emotions running through her weren’t her own. She brought him up to her apartment on autopilot, talked to him on autopilot, holding herself back from what she wanted, until she couldn’t anymore.

He was leaving. He was leaving again after being gone for so long. She knew she’d see him again now, she knew, what with the white flowers and his request, she knew… but still. She couldn’t stop herself from launching into a hug, from gasping against his neck and trying not to pay too much attention to what that smell – the smell of _him_ , of gunpowder, oil, night fresh air, coffee and metal – what it did to her. How it punched through her body, how she knew with an instant recognition that that was him. No one else smelled quite like Frank. And somehow that smell was a boon and an electric shock at the same time; zinging through her and calming her in one fell swoop. She held on too long. She knew that. Could feel his confusion when he relaxed his hold at the appropriate time only for her to stay steadfast, so he tightened it again, waiting for her to be ready. 

Then she dug. And the more she discovered the more she worried. His war was not over, apparently not by a long shot. What he had waged before was just a drop in the pool. The gangs were nothing compared to what she was learning now. Homeland, CIA, NSA, DOD, God could it get any worse? What shit was he into? Was this what Schoonover had meant when he’d talked about Kandahar? Was this ever going to end? She wasn’t sure. In fact she was more and more convinced that Frank, perhaps, didn’t want it too. 

Well… that wasn’t entirely true. He wanted vengeance. But she couldn’t shake the thought, the feeling, the _fear_ that he wanted to die. He didn’t think he deserved to live, she knew that. She didn’t know why. She had heard it echo in his voice when he had told her to just stay away from him. Stay away. She could see it in his eyes; that he was waiting for death. Almost begging for it. But he couldn’t admit it. He just couldn’t. Wasn’t going to commit suicide, no, no, that wasn’t his way. At least not in the way most people did. If he was going down he was taking his enemies with him. But clearly what she’d said about him having an after just went right over his head. What after? There was no _after_. At least, he can’t seem to see one. And that scares her more than anything. The only way Frank will have an after is if he wants one. And he doesn’t seem to want one. 

God that terrifies her. She says she’s angry but really, really, she’s terrified. That hollow space, she feels it echo when she thinks about it. When she’s afraid. The thump of her heart reminding her that it’s there, the squeeze of remembered pain, and the shocking _nothing_ that follows. It leaves her reeling. And she’d thought her feelings for Matt were a swirl. Jesus Christ.

  

_I’ve got a human heart_

_I’ve got a human heart_

_Are you afraid of the dark?_

  

Frank Castle was going to be the end of her. And he wouldn’t even realize. He had no idea what he did to her. She knew that. Just like she knew he cared about her. She can still feel the shy – almost fearful – brush of his lips across her tear damp cheek as he implored her – again – to stay away. He hadn’t used those words, but she could read between the lines. Ah hell, if she was being honest (and if you cant be honest with yourself who can you be honest with), she was crying for her a bit too. No one had, or could, dampen her own loneliness the way Frank did. He was the only one who made her feel whole… for the first time since her family had broken. She was comfortable with him, relaxed by him, and yet ignited by him as well. He made her feel alive in the best way, and as tranquil as lounging in bed on a lazy rainy Sunday morning. 

Fuck. 

He was like the goddamn sunrise - vibrant, warm, soothing, and enlightening. The stuff of life, he set her world on fire. Had done so since he’d exploded onto her horizon with shotgun blasts. She didn’t want to go back to gray. With Matt, the fear of the hurt had been enough to overwhelm the good of being with him, enough to drive her away. But with Frank… she didn’t even really have him but she knew, without question, that he was worth the pain. 

The memory of his wet, red-rimmed eyes floated to the front of her mind. She knew – realistically – that the smoke had probably been the cause of that. Irritated eyes tended to water and turn red, but his _face_ , oh God his face. It was the only time she could ever remember seeing fear in his eyes. And it was entirely for her. 

A strangled sob bubbled past her lips. Squeezing her eyes shut, Karen slammed her back against the cold metal side of the service elevator. Then repeated the process, hoping that maybe the physical pain could distract her from her maudlin thoughts. Three minutes. Frank had told her to give him three minutes to clear the elevator shaft before she restarted it. This train of thought wasn’t really helping. Now she was thinking about the kitchen. 

After she’d stopped him from walking straight into a SWAT team and held out her pilfered gun, he’d frowned at her, eyes getting that stubborn flint she would swear he could paten if he wanted to. It hadn’t taken much arguing – mainly because time was no friend to them and they both knew it. But he _had_ insisted that she clear the chamber and make sure the safety was on before he’d even touch the thing. To be fair though, his right arm was in awful shape, and efficiency demanded that she handle that while he talked her through his plan. At least, the part of it that was relevant to her. Her feelings weren’t hurt by those omissions. She knew it wasn’t that he didn’t trust her – he did - it was because this way she didn’t have to lie for him to the cops when they questioned her. 

She would have done it without a moment’s hesitation. 

Opening her eyes, Karen’s gaze caught where she and Frank had stood breathing each other in; a glaring moment of peace and belonging amidst the fear and adrenaline. Not unlike their hug, moving into him was instinctive and unbidden. She’d felt a serrated knife pierce her heart for each injury he bore. He didn’t deserve this. Bullet graze to the head, Lord knows what had happened to his leg and shoulder, shard sticking out of his dominant arm, painted red with his own blood. That had hurt. So much. Her mauled and mangled heart had thrashed away in her chest over it. 

And she didn’t know what to do. 

He’d stood before her, so vulnerable. Face as open as when he talked about Lisa and Junior. The quality was different, not the same kind of softness that was reserved just for them, this perhaps was reserved just for her. His eyes tracked her face, watching her as she cataloged the damage to his body. 

And she didn’t know what to do. 

So she stood there, eyes screaming for him to know, to understand that he mattered, so much, that he had her; hook, line and sinker. That she would follow his lead on this. She could wait for him to be ready. His gaze met hers and held, and he shattered her world as she stood, lips between teeth, desperately battling back the impulse to kiss him. Closing his eyes, Frank leaned in and lightly touched his brow to hers. They breathed and her world reformed anew.

That erased any doubt; this man would be the end of her. 

Telling him to go had been one of the hardest things she’d ever had to do. But she knew if she didn’t do it then, she wouldn’t do it. And that could cost Frank everything. She wouldn’t be the cause of that. Stepping away from him she’d felt another sharp pain in her chest as fresh tears welled. She held them back as best she could. This needed to be as easy on him as possible. That was imperative. Frank was too prone to guilt. He’d suffer her pain with her if she let him. And as far as Karen was concerned he’d already suffered more than enough, more than one man ever should. She’d spare him as much as possible.

When the clamoring on the roof stopped her dam of self-control burst. Tears streamed down her face as she heaved sobbing breaths and slid to the floor, practically crumbling in on herself. She gave into it. Allowed herself, in the elevator’s solitude, a few precious moments to feel every agonizing morsel. Her knees drew up; head dropping into her hands as sobs wracked her body. Slowly, Karen pulled one trembling hand down to cover her mouth in an attempt to stifle the sound. She did not need it echoing loud enough for anyone to hear. In fact, it was time to pull herself together. Cops and EMS galore would be descending on her in no time at all. 

The heavy, steady breathing she had adopted seemed to help. It slowed her tears at least and that seemed to bring with it some small – but much needed – clarity. Flattening her hands on the wall behind her, Karen pushed to standing, a new resolve coursing through her. It didn’t take her fear or pain, but if there was any one thing she prided herself on, it was her resiliency. That sometimes-maddening ability to get up and keep going, even in the face of common sense telling her to stay down. 

With a quick wipe to clear the tears from her face, Karen reached down for her bag and threw it around her neck as she marched toward the elevator’s panel. It had been three minutes, time to move. One hand reached for the emergency stop while her other fingered the unspent round hiding in her purse. _Hold on with two hands_ , that’s what he had said. Okay, Frank. Okay. She was holding on with two hands, and he was just going to have to deal. 

 

_Some days I close my eyes and fade away_

_And I fade away…_

_That’s just the dark side of me_

_Some nights all the colors turn to grey_

_Just like the dark side of me_

_I’m not afraid of the dark_

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! Comments are always appreciated. Warning: I'm prone to discussions and will respond.


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